Already many were turning to flee, but a dozen orcs had spread themselves out along the jungle’s edge, their whips ready for any that came within reach. It was a milling mass of gray as the goblins teetered on the edge of full retreat. But the muskets were empty, and the smoke had cleared from the Cleft.
“One last push,” Fletcher yelled. “For Raleighshire. For Hominum!”
They charged, as one.
The battle became a massacre. The goblins could not see, nor could they even hear over the cracked screams of agony from their compatriots. Poleaxes rose and fell, then rose again, hammering and chopping with both sides of their weapons. The enemy fell like wheat before the reaper.
Goblins clawed their way past one another, those at the front retreating, those at the back pushed on by fear of their masters. Then the first goblins fought back, fresh troops from the valley. They squinted through red-rimmed, streaming eyes and their breathing was choked, but the first of Fletcher’s men began to cry out—a spear through an elf’s shoulder, a boy’s elbow shattered by a club.
Still they fought, the battle becoming a bitter crush of bodies in the narrow confines between the Phantaur’s shoulders and the steep walls of the Cleft’s bottleneck.
Then, Ignatius landed on the Phantaur, his tail whipping down to impale goblins from above. He opened his mouth and roared, the earth-shattering noise blasting through the Cleft and into the canyon.
And with that, the goblins turned and ran.
CHAPTER
57
THE WORLD WAS FILLED with the dead and the dying. Fletcher did not look down as he staggered back to the safety of the wall, and tried to ignore the shrieks of the wounded as the gremlins went about their work, finishing off the survivors. His men followed, dazed by their victory. Some limped, others groaned from their wounds, but none were mortally injured.
In his scrying crystal, Fletcher could see the goblins were in full retreat, running past the orcs despite the cruel whips that beat at them. No more than a handful remained on the fields of battle, staring at the corpse-laden gap between the rock walls of the mountain.
And then Fletcher saw him, his eyes refocusing past the crystal. A still figure, sitting with his back pressed against the wall. Rory.
The boy was staring vacantly, a mild smile upon his face. His hands were clutched around his stomach, where blood had spread across the green cloth of his uniform.
“Rory,” Genevieve uttered, dropping her sword and running to his side. She shook him, tears streaming down her face. “No, no, no, no.”
She repeated the word, slapping his face, at first gently, then harder as she tried to bring him back to life. Fletcher knelt beside her and pulled her away, taking her hands in his.
“He’s gone,” Fletcher said, hugging her close. He was almost unable to believe his own words.
He had not seen Rory in the battle. His mind flashed back to the young officer, staggering ahead of him after the battle with the Phantaur.
Rory must have been injured in the fight. If he had known it, he could have healed him. But now it was too late.
Was this his fault?
“He … he didn’t tell me he was hurt,” Fletcher whispered, unable to look away from Rory’s face.
Sir Caulder crouched beside them and closed the boy’s eyes with a gentle hand.
“Come away now,” he said, pulling them both up. “Let’s leave him be.”
But Genevieve wouldn’t. She slid down the wall beside him and took his hand in hers once again.
“He’s still warm,” she said, stroking it.
Sir Caulder sniffed, and Fletcher saw a glimmer of a tear in his eye. The men gathered around, their heads bowed.
“He died fighting for his country,” Fletcher said, the words struggling to come past the lump in his throat. “And he was a braver man than I. Let’s make sure that he did not die in vain.”
As Genevieve’s sobs began, Fletcher turned away. It was only minutes later, when the troops had left them, that he allowed himself to cry.
* * *
Two hours ticked by. Half the orcs remained, along with a hundred goblins, scattered across the canyon. They used their shields to shade themselves from the sun above, waiting for their next orders.
The Foxes used the time to sharpen their blades once again, but other than that all they could do was rest and take turns watching the goblins, halfway up the watchtower’s pathway.
Ignatius was infused, as there was no mana left for him to self-heal and the javelin wounds were deep in the Drake’s haunches and back. Fletcher thanked him with a kiss upon the demon’s beak.
He took on the demon’s pain, as Ignatius disappeared within him.
As for Genevieve, she remained by Rory, her eyes blazing with anger as her Mites continued their search across what she told Fletcher was a frantic battle along the front lines, filled with gunfire and the screams of the dying.
So Fletcher waited at the wall, watching the proceedings through his scrying crystal. There was nothing else he could do but hope.
“Maybe they’ve run away,” Logan said, spitting over the wall. “Could’ve scared ’em off.”
“Not a chance,” Fletcher replied, taking a deep gulp of water from his hip flask. “The Phantaur saw how few of us there were before it died, which means the shaman knows it too. They won’t give up. Let’s just hope that Genevieve gets a message through. The Celestial Corps could be here in time, if we’re lucky.”
Even as he spoke, a noise echoed through the canyon—a horn being blown long and hard. It was deep and loud, reverberating against the walls that surrounded them. Fletcher felt a burst of fear pulsing through Athena in a frantic warning. He looked in the pink overlay of his scrying crystal.
Hundreds upon hundreds of goblins were emerging from the jungle’s edge. Hyenas prowled through their ranks, accompanied by their orc masters. The first wave of goblins had been herded back, and worse still, Fletcher could see red-eyed specimens smattered throughout the masses. The enemies they had just routed were coming back, caught up in the horde that had returned to the battlefield.
“What is it?” Mason called out. The Cleft was so choked with bodies, they could not see the gathering storm that was bearing down on them.
Fletcher would not lie to them. They had no ammunition. No more gunpowder, no more tricks. They could not survive this next onslaught. They would barely slow it down before the goblins flooded into Raleighshire.
He looked at his brave soldiers, who had fought a force that had outnumbered them a hundred to one. Who had faced down an army designed to bring all of Hominum to their knees, and beaten them back time and again.
And he saw Rory’s still face, and the line of tent-covered bodies beyond. He could not ask his men to die, not in a battle they could not win. They had already given him so much.
“They’re coming, and we’re leaving,” Fletcher said. “Logan, Kobe, bring the wagon up here. Throw out the food and put the bodies of our Foxes on there. Leave the Forsyth Furies; there’s no room for them now.”
The two soldiers snapped into action, running pell-mell down the canyon. Fletcher walked over to Rory and gently lifted him onto his shoulder. He called after the Foxes as they stumbled over the walls.
“I want the injured and the gremlins on the wagon too; we’ll be running for Watford Bridge.”
In the crystal, Fletcher could see the goblins gathering for the attack. The orcs were in no rush, waiting as more and more goblins streamed through the jungles, hyenas snapping at their heels. He counted the seconds, knowing that every moment was another few steps ahead of the oncoming horde. Would they make it? The wagon was a blessing and a curse, able to transport those unable to walk, but likely slower than they could run. It would be a mad, two-hour sprint to Watford Bridge, if they stuck to the roads.
As he considered their predicament, their transport arrived, Logan snapping the reigns at the two boars at its head. Fletcher allowed Genevieve to take Rory’s body
to the wagon, unable to refuse her grief-stricken gaze as she held out her arms for it.
“You’ve done more than anyone could ask,” Sir Caulder said, wrapping his good arm around Fletcher’s shoulders. “Your parents would be proud of the man you’ve become.”
Fletcher watched as the last of Rotherham’s men made their way down from the platform. It was time.
“It won’t make a blind bit of difference,” Fletcher said, kicking at the dirt with his feet. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t catch up with us. You’d better get on the wagon. With your leg…”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Sir Caulder said, giving Fletcher a grim smile. “I’m not going.”
“What do you mean?” Fletcher asked, half listening as he watched the wounded and the gremlins clamber into the back of the wagon.
“I’ve got a score to settle,” Sir Caulder said, hefting his blade.
“Sir Caul—”
“No,” the old soldier said, cutting him off. “This is where I belong. I failed Raleighshire once. Never again. I’ll hold them off, give my lads a chance to escape.”
“You’ll never hold them off alone, you silly bag o’ bones,” came Rotherham’s voice from behind him. “There’s two ways in past that corpse.”
Sir Caulder growled.
“Listen, Rotter, this isn’t the time for—”
“So I guess I’d better stay with you,” the grizzled sergeant interrupted, drawing his sword. He looked at it and smiled fondly.
“You sold me this sword, Fletcher. Funny that, eh? How things change.”
“Listen, there’s no time for this madness,” Fletcher snapped.
“Then you’d better get goin’,” Rotherham said, “because we won’t be changin’ our minds. Go on, or it’ll all be for nought.”
Fletcher opened his mouth to yell at them, but then he saw the stubborn look in the old men’s eyes. It was useless arguing with them.
“I … don’t know what to say,” he managed.
Sir Caulder stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug. His body felt so frail beneath the cloth of his uniform.
“Look after the place when I’m gone, eh, lad?” he said, rubbing a knuckle against Fletcher’s cheek. “You’re your father’s son. It’s been an honor.”
Then he stomped away, his sword thrumming the air.
“See you on the other side, kid,” Rotherham said. “One last battle for me and that grumpy bugger. We’ll make it one for the books.”
“I won’t let anyone forget it,” Fletcher said, smiling through his tears.
“See that you don’t,” Rotherham growled, giving him an encouraging wink.
Then he too was gone, whistling a jaunty tune.
Fletcher watched the pair for a moment, striding resolutely toward their final stand. Then he turned away.
“Right, Foxes,” Fletcher said, wiping his face dry. “Let’s get out of here!”
CHAPTER
58
THEY RAN. THEY RAN until their chests burned with the dry air of the savannah, stumbling over the uneven ground toward Raleightown, the rattle of the wagon’s wheels ringing in their ears.
Fletcher had left Athena in the rocks above the Cleft, to let them know just how far the goblins were behind. He did his best not to look at the two forlorn figures waiting with their swords drawn below. Yet still the orcs waited, allowing their ranks to swell with the reinforcements that continued to emerge from the jungles. Soon there were so many that they had expanded beyond the first row of stakes in the ground and were well on their way to the second. As many as three thousand goblins could be gathered there—an army that could raze Corcillum to the ground if given the chance.
Half an hour had passed when Fletcher and his soldiers stumbled through the empty, cobbled streets of Raleightown and onto the dirt path on the other side. But just as Fletcher felt a surge of relief that the settlement had been deserted, it happened. The goblins began their attack.
They had learned their lesson. The orcs sent a scouting party first, twenty-odd goblins that walked with fearful steps into the corpse-laden Crest.
“Come on, you ugly runts!” Athena heard Rotherham yell faintly, and Fletcher smiled bitterly.
He could not watch, but heard the goblins shriek as they discovered the two lone swordsmen waiting for them.
“Got the blighter,” Sir Caulder barked as a hard fight began in the narrow confines of the Cleft.
Fletcher let his eyes stray from the crystal. The sun was ending its long journey down toward the horizon. Had that much time really gone by? Perhaps the battle had been lost, and thousands of orcs were streaming across Hominum. And where were Berdon and the rest of his colonists? Had they made it safely back to Corcillum—or had they left too late and were only a few miles ahead of them?
Even as the cries of the goblins reverberated in his head, Fletcher’s heart dropped. Just behind a copse of trees, a great convoy of wagons could be seen. And it wasn’t moving.
“What the hell are you still doing here!” Fletcher yelled hoarsely, running ahead of his soldiers.
He could see Berdon there, his red hair flaming in the dusk light. The big man was crouched behind the back of the rearmost wagon, surrounded by a dozen colonists.
Fletcher’s father’s eyes widened as he took in Fletcher’s bloodied, soot-stained clothes. Then Fletcher was wrapped in a great bear hug, so tight that his ribs felt they would crack under the strain. He patted Berdon’s back frantically, until the affectionate bear of a man allowed his feet to return to the ground once more.
“You’re alive,” Berdon said, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Not for long if we don’t get a move on,” Fletcher said, resisting the urge to cry himself. “You should be in Corcillum by now.”
The colonists around them muttered darkly under their breaths.
“It’s the wagons,” Berdon said, kicking the nearby carriage with a grunt of frustration. “Somebody came by last night and sawed most of the way through the axles. We were lucky to get this far at all before they started breaking. Yours is the only one unharmed, because we were loading it up that evening.”
“Didric,” Fletcher breathed. “He sabotaged us, to cripple our trade.”
“Aye,” Berdon said, leaning closer to Fletcher. “The spiteful little git. And now these fools won’t leave. Not without their belongings.”
Fletcher turned to the colonists. More had gathered around at the sight of the exhausted soldiers. Fletcher saw the children and the elderly among them. Too many to fit on his wagon.
“Listen to me,” Fletcher said, his eyes boring into theirs as he swept his gaze through the gathered men and women. “In less than an hour, thousands of goblins will be spreading across the land. Sir Caulder and Rotherham have stayed behind to hold them off. Their sacrifice will give us mere minutes. I will not let them die while we waste their last gift to us arguing over your possessions. We are leaving. Anyone who wants to stay can do so. Hell, you’d be doing us a favor—killing you would slow them down.”
He knew his words were harsh, but the truth rang loud with every syllable.
“Those who cannot keep up will join the wounded in our wagon—elders, children. The rest of you, leave everything but the clothes on your backs. Now, come on!”
The soldiers had caught up by now, and the wagon barely stopped as the elderly and youngest children were loaded on through the back. With the added weight, the boars strained at their traces, and the vehicle moved slowly along the ground, more so than Fletcher would have liked.
Already the gremlins were leaping out to lighten the load, scampering alongside easily enough, even with their short legs.
“Swap out our boars with a fresh pair,” he ordered Gallo as the wagon trundled onto the grass, the dirt road blocked by the crippled convoy. “And bring along as many as you can, and let the slowest ride them. We’ll need to swap them out with the wagon regularly if we want to reach Corcillum.”
The noise of battle
was thick in his mind, and then Athena was swooping dizzily from the rocks above. Ten goblins were limping away from the channel, while Sir Caulder, bloodied but triumphant, held his sword aloft in salute to the Gryphowl. Rotherham leaned heavily on the Phantaur’s side, clutching a wound in his thigh, but grinning as he yelled over the demon’s bulk.
The horn sounded again, so loud that Fletcher winced as the noise reverberated around his skull. And then the hordes charged across the canyon, trampling over the retreating band of scouts they had sent before.
“No,” Fletcher breathed as Athena circled above.
He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other but could not tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding in the crystal at his eye.
Twice more the goblins charged, and again and again the enemy was hurled back by the veterans’ skill and courage. An invading army, stoppered in the bottleneck to an empire by two brave old men. Fletcher’s heart swelled with pride, even as tendrils of despair began to take hold. It couldn’t last.
Goblins were climbing over the Phantaur’s corpse, hurling javelins and spears, forcing the embattled men to retreat. The two men fought back-to-back, their swords flashing and jabbing, sending goblin after goblin to their deaths as the squealing masses pressed in. An orc shouldered his way through and lashed his whip at their feet, tugging Rotherham to his knees.
Sir Caulder hurled his sword, skewering the orc in its throat. Then he stiffened, a spear going deep into his back.
“It’s time to leave, Athena,” Fletcher whispered, ordering the Gryphowl away.
He caught one last glimpse of the two men, surrounded by the baying hordes. Sir Caulder on his knees, Rotherham beside him, his sword raised in defiance. A howl of victory from the goblins as they crowded in.
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